


The Light (In His Eyes)

by WeWillForeverBeYoung



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Crying John, Crying Sherlock, Friendship/Love, Goodbyes, Implied Relationships, M/M, POV John Watson, Reichenbach Angst, Serious Injuries, Suicide, song lyrics included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeWillForeverBeYoung/pseuds/WeWillForeverBeYoung
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes jumps from the roof of St. Bart's. However, his death does not go as he planned. John is there to comfort him. (This work was made under the possibility that the jump made in "The Reichenbach Fall" was not a part of the "fake-death". This work was also inspired by the song "Midnight" by Coldplay.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Light (In His Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This is my first post on AO3, though I have also published many other things on fanfiction.net. (The import rules are crazy for that site, by the way).  
> Anyway, this little story was made under the a random notion that Sherlock had every intention of dying at the end of Season 2. (Spoilers- he doesn't, duh). But I've always wondered what would happen if Sherlock did not have a plan to fake his death. And so I wrote this.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock. I do not own "Midnight" by Coldplay).

"Millions of miles from home  
In the swirling swimming on  
When I’m rolling with the thunder  
But bleed from thorns  
Leave a light- a light on."

  
-“Midnight” by Coldplay

My phone fell from my hand and hit the pavement with a _thud._ But I paid it no mind, for my mind was preoccupied with the sight that I had just been faced with, for something else had just hit the ground with a _thud._

A blood-curdling scream pierced through the air, commanding the attention of all who were near. And that very scream sent me out of my daze and commanded me to run towards the body on the ground-the body of Sherlock Holmes, the best friend I could have ever hoped to have.

“Oh- oh my god...” Sherlock stammered as his face contorted in pain.

Before any of the St. Bart’s employees had even realized what had happened, I was sitting beside Sherlock, as I had always been, assessing his injuries. I even used some of the strategies he taught me over the years, though his deduction skills would always be better.

 _Fractured spine. Fractured legs. Fractured left-arm. Must have landed towards that side. Fractured ribs. Most likely a fractured neck too. Numerous punctured organs. And_ _definitely a fractured… skull._ Of course, I was not going to open his coat and shirt to test any of my “deductions” out, since that would put Sherlock in even more turmoil than he already was in. I grabbed his right hand, since that arm was one of few areas of his body that did not take damage from the impact with the ground. _Too many injuries,_ Common Sense told my medically-inclined brain, though I used all of my will to cling to the hope that Sherlock could make it out of this.

I so desperately wanted to believe that Sherlock, my Sherlock, could beat all of the odds and walk away from this as though these injuries were no different than the ones he sustained chasing criminals those two magnificent years.

“Shhh, it’s okay Sherlock.” I began to rub small circles on the top of the hand I had grabbed. I knew it was the least that could be done to help him, besides a quick, heavy dose of morphine. I did not know whether the first-responders stationed at the hospital could hear me, or if in the world outside the bubble of Sherlock’s sobs someone had already alerted the hospital of the situation, but I still bellowed, “HEY! We need help!”

“J-John…” He looked up at me with those damned blue eyes of his. He managed a blink, causing a solemn tear to fall out of his right eye and slide down one of his perfect cheekbones. (Tell me, how was it possible for his irises to be made up of so many colors and still be so electrifying? Tell me, how was it possible for his face to be structured like one you would find on a marble statue?)

“Sherlock, save you energy… No, stop! Don’t try anything. Just let me handle it.”

I gripped his hand, tighter. He gave a strong grip back and his eyelids squeezed shut. He let out another whimper, and two more tears, each opposite sides of his face, made their way towards the pool of liquid that had gathered around him. He was trying his best not to cry. 

He knew he was dying. Of course, that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He wanted to die. That was the reason he jumped. He didn’t care how I would fare if he died. He didn’t care that I would have had to go back to the flat and spend the rest of my life wondering what could have happened if I had gotten there sooner or if I had noticed the signs that he was in emotional anguish.

“J-John…” His voice was growing weaker. It was going to be over soon. It was then that I finally heard the shouts and the shuffling of footsteps of the paramedics.

“It’s okay,” I said. My voice was not shaking. I wanted to be calm for him. “It’s all going to be alright.”

A stretcher was making its way over. I could hear the wheels screeching.

“Sherlock.” A tear slipped down my nose. “Here’s where I say goodbye to you, now. “ I placed my finger over his wrist to feel his pulse, so I would know exactly when it happened. “Thank you for everything.”

I bent over and kissed his forehead. That brilliant mind was right beneath my lips- the closest I had ever gotten to figuring out what went on inside. The thumping beneath my pointer finger ceased, and I began to sob. I raised myself up enough to see his gorgeous face in its entirety. His gaze was frozen upon my own, but the light in his eyes was gone.

It took a lot of effort, but with the yelling and prying paramedics around me, I quickly shut his eyes, and the realization that my friend was dead hit me like a train, which at the time, did not seem like such a bad alternative to sitting there on the pavement beside his body.

Because I knew I inevitably had to, I let my Sherlock be lifted out of my arms and onto the stretcher. I helplessly watched as they wheeled him out of my sight. I knew it would be foolish to give chase, so I sat there on the ground and placed my trembling, bloody hands over my own eyes.

I stayed there and cried.

I remember getting up and walking home at some point. And as soon as I got there, I cried some more, for there was not someone there to tell me how pathetically sentimental I looked and how much I needed to stop.


End file.
